“Good night! Good night! Good night!” was shouted on all sides.
Less and less brilliant grew the fire. Now it was but a heap of glowing coals that would soon be gray, dead and cold ashes, typical in a way, of the passing of the senior boys. And yet, phoenix-like, from these same ashes would spring up a new fire—a fire in the hearts that would never die out. Such are school friendships.
Of course there were forbidden little feasts in the various rooms to mark the close of the term—spreads to which monitors, janitors and professors discreetly closed their eyes.
Andy and his friends gathered in his apartment for a last chat. They were to journey to their home town on the morrow and then would soon separate for the long summer vacation.
“Well, it was a rare old celebration!” sighed Tom, as he flopped on the bed.
“It sure was!” agreed Chet, with conviction. “I hope I have as much fun as this if I go to Harvard.”
“Same here, only I think I’ll make mine Princeton,” added Ben. “Oh, but it’s sort of hard to leave Milton!”
“Right you are,” came from Andy, who was opening ginger ale and soda water.
And, after a time, quiet settled down over the school, and Dr. Morrison and his colleagues breathed freely again. Milton had stood steadfast through another assault of “bonfire night.”
The next morning there were confused goodbyes, multiplied promises to write, or to call, vows never to forget, and protestations of eternal friendship. There were arrangements made for camping, boating, tramping and other forms of vacation fun. There were dates made for assembling next year. There was a confused rushing to and fro, a looking up of the time of trains, hurried searches for missing baggage.